


lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off

by acid_glue234



Category: Glee
Genre: Caught, F/F, Faberry Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That kind of weirdo bullshit can get you on television these days. Never mind that, but if Rachel ever found out?" Santana twists her face into a grimace, sympathetic for the situation you're stuck in. You kind of want to punch her lights out right now. "Fuck, not only would she be freaked the hell out—she would never forgive you." AU Faberry Week Sequel, Day Four: Caught</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from Panic! At the Disco song

She's a co-worker at your job, and she's absolutely gorgeous. Her eyes are chestnut brown; not almond or coffee or dark chocolate, but chestnut. Her hair is so shiny that when the sun hits her at that perfect angle, you hear angels sing.

Her smile can make the most unhappy person feel like they've won a million dollars. When she smiles at you, it's the best day ever. When she actually touches you, just a brush of the shoulder, it's like getting shocked by an electric fence.

But in a nice kind of way.

You once told yourself to stop falling for people at work. It just makes things super awkward and uncomfortable, especially when one person doesn't feel the same way about the other.

On most days, you're so nervous to be around Rachel, you don't even talk to her. Watching her stock books and organize inventory from the other side of the bookshop is the only way you can get through the day without embarrassing yourself.

Patting you on the back, Santana snickers, "You've got it bad, girl." And she's right. Whatever this is, you've got it worse than you've ever had it before.

"My stomach hurts," you say, leaning over the cash register. "Whenever I look at her, my stomach starts to hurt. Is that a sign?"

"It's a sign that you should stay away," she tells you, shaking her head as she loads a stack of books behind the counter. "Besides, I heard she's as straight as a picket fence. You don't wanna mess around with that."

You raise an eyebrow, suggestive. "And how do you know what I want to mess around with?"

Santana laughs. "Alright, fine, she _could_ be a good lay," she considers, shrugging a shoulder. "Rachel looks like a fun girl, if you know what I mean."

You scrunch up your nose at the wink she gives you. "Did you just call her a slut?"

"But," Santana ignores your previous question. "If you find yourself wanting something long-term and serious-" she pauses to give you a look- "I'm always available."

You can't tell if she's being serious or not. You can never tell. Santana's been making sly comments like this ever since you first met after moving to New York for college. She's a naturally flirtatious girl, but you can never tell if she's joking or actually considering you.

Over the years you've been told that you have a habit of being oblivious, blind, and naïve when it comes to relationships, so you hope this time isn't one of those times.

"Wait, did you just call yourself a slut?"

\--

From across the shop, Rachel flips her hair over her shoulder and giggles at something Kurt says. You wonder if he's really as funny as Rachel makes him out to be.

Sure, he has that whole sarcastic gay thing going for him, but you can be funny too; if only you had the courage to actually go up and talk to her.

She's right there, only ten footsteps away, just waiting for you to approach her, but all you can do is sulk behind the cash register and stare at her like a lost puppy.

It's kind of pathetic. You're a pathetic human being, and if Santana was on this shift right now she'd tell you to stop being a little bitch and do something about it.

It really doesn't even matter what you say. Rachel's one of those girls who can turn thin air into a full blown debate. You don't even have to worry about carrying the conversation when it comes to her, so why are you still hiding out in your corner?

Your eyes follow her as she walks across the shop, towards the iPod dock, and changes the song. She smiles to herself when the next artist that shuffles on is Adele.

She has good taste in music. There's a conversation starter. Conversation about music is a good icebreaker, right?

No matter how hard you try, you can't take your eyes off of her. She makes the most mundane activities look sexy—eating an apple, flipping the pages of a magazine, chewing a piece of gum, reapplying her mascara, vacuuming the shaggy carpet in the back of the shop. Everything she does makes you sick.

But in a nice kind of way.

Picking up a book from out of the romantic fiction section, Rachel carefully scans the first page before flipping to the back of the book. You wonder if she's one of those spoiler readers; the ones who like to know how the book ends before they've even started.

Before you can look away, Rachel peeks up from under her bangs with this contemplative look and tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. She catches your eye and smiles, but you're so caught off guard, all you can do is stare back.

She looks at you for another moment—lopsided smile still intact—before shaking her head with this quizzical look, and you want nothing more than a bolt of lightning to strike you dead as you watch her head back over to Kurt.

She's probably going to tell him about that weird girl behind the cash register who randomly says hi to her and stares at her every time you share a shift. She's probably cringing at the thought of you watching her from afar.

Kurt's probably laughing and shaking his head at the sad display of hope written across your face whenever Rachel brushes passed you or says your name with that twinkle in her eyes.

Holding her stomach in laughter, Rachel hits Kurt in the shoulder with a magazine before placing it back on the rack beside her. You'd do anything for her to hit you with something.

Her face gets red whenever she laughs too hard. You can see the joy in her eyes. The harder she laughs, the glassier her eyes get.

Behind the counter, you smile to yourself, but your cheeks feel stiff and your lips are trembling, so you look away, down at the thick novel opened in your hands.

\--

You find her on Facebook under Rachel Barbra. It took you about four hours to find the right Rachel, because, for the first two hours, you searched through almost every Berry on the entire website.

Once you locate her, you don't know what to do. You probably stare blankly at her profile picture—a playful selfie of herself and a close friend—for a good five minutes before you click out of the page and slam your laptop shut.

\--

Santana's talking your ear off, and it's really starting to give you a migraine. You don't even know what she's talking about, but by the high register in her voice you can tell she's complaining about something or another—most likely inventory or the restocking of used books.

You don't really care what she's saying either way. Rachel's on shift today, and it's the first time in maybe a month that Kurt isn't here at the same time.

"I'm gonna go talk to her," you declare, most likely cutting off whatever it is Santana's saying.

"Why are you telling me? I don't give a shit," she mutters, disinterested, and then clears her throat when she catches the look on your face. "I mean, sure, whatever. She's all alone. Go talk to her then."

You weren't really asking for her permission, but you go anyway before Santana can call you back and talk you out of it, like she tends to do every time you build up the courage to approach Rachel.

You fix your hair. Check your breath. Smooth out your blouse. Lick your front teeth. Smack your lips together. And say, "Hey, Rachel."

She smiles at you, as if she's actually glad you're here. "Quinn, I'm glad you're here," she says, and you think something just popped in your chest, but in a nice kind of way—until she adds, "Kurt was supposed to put these books on the top shelf in the storage room yesterday, but it must have slipped his mind. As you can see, my lack of height limits me when it comes to reaching high objects, so it would be truly appreciated if—"

"Sure," you say, taking the box out of her hands. The shock you feel in your fingertips when your hands brush against hers is worth the stab of disappointment in your chest. "I don't mind."

You smile, but only because Rachel smiles at you first as she says, "Thank you, Quinn. You came around at just the right moment."

Instead of speaking, you nod, because words can't really express how you feel right now as you head towards the storage room and away from Rachel, yet again.

Passing Santana on your way there, you can just feel the sly comment radiating off of her skin. Before she can utter a word, you narrow your eyes on her and hiss, "Shut up."

She laughs like it's the funniest thing she's heard all week.

\--

You're still on Rachel's Facebook page the next time you open up your laptop. Your mouse must hover over the friend request button for a full ten minutes before you laugh out loud at yourself.

This is so stupid. You're an attractive girl. Rachel's an attractive girl. The both of you could be two very attractive girls together if you'd just click the damn button.

Your pointer finger hovers over the left button on the mouse before you end up just signing out of your account completely.

Sure, Rachel would easily be your friend, but that's only because she's a nice person. She's friendly and bubbly and kind, and of course she'd be your friend.

But you don't want her as a friend. You want her as a lover, a girlfriend. You've dreamt of kissing her, holding her, loving her, cherishing her. And you can't do that being Quinn.

Rachel's straight; she likes Patricks and Henrys and Franks and Tylers. There's no way she'd ever fall for you, so with a few clicks of a button, you become everything she'll ever want.

You give her a man.

You give her Derrick Emerson.

\--

Derrick Emerson's favorite season is autumn because the leaves remind him that change is a part of life. Nothing quite makes his heart soar like a classic Queen song.

Rainbows remind him of _The Wizard of Oz_. He is an extraordinarily gifted whistler. He used to have the hugest crush on Meg Ryan. He doesn't understand the significance of kite flying.

He spends his off time memorizing license plates. His greatest fears are crows and apple pies. He broke his wrist as a child doing gymnastics. Sometimes he stares at the sun, but only because it's just so big and shiny.

He has short blonde hair and sexy hazel eyes that make the ladies melt into puddles on the floor. Jogging in the early morning helps him stay in tip top shape. He likes being outside on windy days and inside during thunderstorms. His favorite animal is the great wooly mammoth.

He gets nauseous when he reads in the car. Hospitals make him pensive. He's studying Creative Writing and Philosophy at Georgetown University. He finds it uncomfortable to sleep with a pillow underneath his head.

He loves reading old dusty books with missing pages. Writing is the only thing he truly lives for, other than love. Sex is the other thing he truly lives for, other than strawberry milkshakes.

Derrick Emerson is just like you, yet the two of you are nothing alike.

\--

It's not long before she starts liking your fake pictures, commenting on your pretend status updates. At first you don't know what to do, so you ignore her attempts at conversation.

You know that what you're doing isn't right. After all, you're not who she thinks you are.

This is identity theft or fraud or something. Regardless, it's just plain slimy, but you do it anyway, because this is Rachel, and she's finally your friend, and maybe if you play your cards right, she might even end up being more than that one day.

\--

It's fifteen minutes past midnight. You're up late, typing diligently on your laptop as you try to finish a report for your Introduction to French Poetry class, when you get an instant message in a separate tab on your browser webpage.

It's usually Santana at around this time, either messaging you because she's drunk and lonely, or because she's wondering what time her shift starts tomorrow. Tonight, though, it's neither of those things because it is not Santana.

**Rachel Barbra [12:17am]:** _hi, i know this message may seem out of the blue since we've never spoken online before, but do i know you from somewhere?_

She wants to know if she knows you from somewhere. _The bookshop_ , you almost write, but no, that's not right. She's never met Derrick before in her life, obviously. No one has.

You have to reread and edit your response four times before pressing send because your fingers are shaking so much on the keyboard.

**Derrick Emerson [12:21am]:** _hey there, and no we've never met, but it seems we're mutual friends. i've just been really into branching out ever since starting college. is that cool with you?_

You stare at your screen for three minutes straight and wonder if she's having just as much trouble replying to you as you have replying to her.

**_Rachel Barbra [12:22am]:_ ** _yes, of course, it's definitely cool with me! i love getting to know new people, even strangers ;)_

_Wow_. This is actually a lot easier than you thought it would be with the barrier of Derrick between you and Rachel.

You still know it's not right, but the thought of talking to Rachel in the middle of the night is clouding your judgment.

Smiling, you crack your knuckles and type out a response.

\--

It starts off like the beginning of a book; slow but with purpose.

**Rachel Barbra [7:32pm]:** _hi :)_

**_Derrick Emerson [7:34pm]:_ ** _hey, what's up?_

**_Rachel Barbra [7:34pm]:_ ** _just got back from work. so tired of books right now_

**_Derrick Emerson [7:35pm]:_ ** _lol i don't think i could ever get tired of books_

**_Rachel Barbra [7:35pm]:_ ** _you enjoy reading??_

**_Derrick Emerson [7:36pm]:_ ** _only as much as I enjoy breathing_

\--

Then, it sprouts like a flower, inch by inch.

**_Rachel Barbra [2:12am]:_ ** _and that's how I broke my pinky finger._

**_Derrick Emerson [2:12am]:_ ** _you are kind of awesome. you know that, right?_

**_Rachel Barbra [2:13am]:_ ** _just kind of?_

**_Derrick Emerson [2:13am]:_ ** _just kind of ;)_

**_Rachel Barbra [2:13am]:_ ** _then you are kind of lame -_-_

**_Derrick Emerson [2:14am]:_ ** _then why are you friends with me? kind of bad judgment on your part._

**_Rachel Barbra [2:14am]:_ ** _:P_

\-----

Next, it unravels like a loose rope; vulnerable, but still strong.

**_Derrick Emerson [10:13pm]:_ ** _it's your turn._

**_Rachel Barbra [10:14pm]:_ ** _ummm, where did you grow up?_

**_Derrick Emerson [10:17pm]:_ ** _in a small midwestern town where the sky is always blue and the cows always moo._

**_Rachel Barbra [10:17pm]:_ ** _lol sounds exciting._

**_Rachel Barbra [10:21pm]:_ ** _how about your parents? are they good people?_

**_Derrick Emerson [10:22pm]:_ ** _ugh, my parents._

**_Rachel Barbra [10:22pm]:_ ** _i guess i'll take that as a no..._

**_Derrick Emerson [10:25pm]:_ ** _i've always dreamt of being a writer but my close-minded parents wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor. they never really accepted my path in life._

**_Rachel Barbra [10:27pm]:_ ** _that must've been difficult. them never accepting you for who you are, i mean._

**_Derrick Emerson [10:29pm]:_ ** _eh. it wasn't so bad once i started school and learned that my life choices aren't really about my parents._

**_Rachel Barbra [10:32pm]:_ ** _that's really mature of you, derrick. from what you've told me, i think you're on the right path._

**_Derrick Emerson [10:32pm]:_ ** _that really means a lot coming from you_

**_Rachel Barbra [10:33pm]:_ ** _< 3_

\--

And finally, it takes off like a fueled rocket; fast and a bit out of control.

**_Rachel Barbra [12:56pm]:_ ** _i really like you._

**_Derrick Emerson [1:00am]:_ ** _is that so?_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:01am]:_ ** _more than so :)_

**_Derrick Emerson [1:03am]:_ ** _like a best friend?_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:03am]:_ ** _no..._

**_Derrick Emerson [1:03am]:_ ** _a special friend?_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:04am]:_ ** _lol you're getting warmer._

**_Derrick Emerson [1:04am]:_ ** _hmmm..._

**_Rachel Barbra [1:04am]:_ ** _Derrick!_

**_Derrick Emerson [1:05am]:_ ** _RACHEL_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:06am]:_ ** _lol fine, i'll be the mature one and ask. will you go steady with me?_

**_Derrick Emerson [1:08am]:_ ** _LMAO. steady? really???_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:08am]:_ ** _you know what I mean :P_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:19am]:_ ** _?_

**_Derrick Emerson [1:22am]:_ ** _of course, but only because i like you too._

\--

It's quiet enough where you can hear bits and pieces of their conversation from the other side of the bookcase.

"His name is Derrick, and he's so damn charming," Rachel gushes, holding her phone up for Kurt to see. "And look, here's a picture of him. Isn't he good-looking?"

Kurt smiles stiffly. "I must admit, he is very handsome," he says hesitantly. "But I never took you as the online dating type, Rachel. I mean, how do you even know this guy?"

"We're mutual friends," she huffs, smiling down at her phone. "And this isn't online dating. It's Facebook. We're just Facebook friends...who talk all of the time and tell each other everything."

You bite your bottom lip and slide against the bookcase to the ground. She's lying to him, of course, because you and Rachel have been technically dating for two weeks now.

Or maybe you should say _Derrick_ and Rachel have been dating for that long.

This is the first time you've ever heard Rachel willingly lie to Kurt. You're not sure if it's a good sign or not.

" _Everything_?" Kurt murmurs, worried. "Rachel, I'm happy you found someone, but maybe you should be careful about what you tell this guy."

"Kurt, I am the epitome of careful," she insists, pocketing her phone with a roll of her eyes. "Derrick is the nicest guy. He's sweet and sincere and very mature for his age."

You peek through the spaces between the books, and Kurt doesn't look too convinced. You know it always comes down to the best friend, so you hold your breath and cross your fingers.

"Actually, I think you'd like him," Rachel continues, giggling excitedly as she tugs on his arm. "He's a closet poetry nerd just like you."

Unconvinced and eyebrows raised, Kurt mutters, "Hemingway?"

"Indeed."

"Dickinson?"

"Of _course_ ," she laughs, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. "And I didn't even mention the best part yet. His last name is Emerson."

"You mean," he starts, swallowing thickly. "Like, the great Ralph Waldo Emerson?"

Wiggling her eyebrows, Rachel grins slyly as she singsongs, "The one and only."

Kurt purses his lips, fidgets from one foot to the other, and scratches the side of his head in thought. "Alright, I'll give it to you. He's kind of perfect," he sighs, folding his arms over his chest. "I just want you to be safe, okay?"

"I'm being safe," Rachel insists, grinning up at him with those eyes no human being can resist. "I used a screen protector and everything."

Holding back his laughter, Kurt lets out a snort. "You really think you're funny, huh?" he says, squeezing Rachel's arm comfortingly. "You're cute, but not funny."

"Derrick thinks I'm cute too," she whispers, smiling from ear to ear.

Kurt makes a gag face before going back to work, and you try your very best not to feel guilty about the bashful smile spread across Rachel's cheeks as she hums happily to herself.

\--

"Hey," Santana whispers, sneaking up behind you. You jump back, startled, until you realize it's just her, and then you roll your eyes. "I just got the scoop. Rachel's dating this cyber dude named Roderick or something. Seems to me it's time to give up and move on. So sorry."

She sounds a little too cheerful about this notion to actually be apologetic, but you shake it off and try to hide your smile.

"Did you just hear me?" she says, leaning an elbow on the counter, dark eyes practically dissecting you as she looks you up and down. "Why the fuck are you grinning? Rachel would rather bone a computer monitor than you. I think this is a sign."

You've heard it all before. "A sign for _what_ , Santana?"

"A sign that the two of us are made for each other."

This is usually when you'd accuse her of joking, but she actually sounds serious this time, and when you look down at her, Santana's picking at her nails, all nervous-like, and it's kind of making you nervous as well.

Wow, this is awkward. "Santana, I'm really—"

"Please don't say you're flattered or whatever other fucking bullshit you always manage to pull out of your ass," Santana mutters, locking the register as she closes up shop. To say you're taken aback by the number of expletives she can use in a sentence would be an understatement. "If you wanna grovel over a chick who doesn't even know you exist—rather than be with a smart, beautiful woman who will treat you right—be my fucking guest, Fabray."

She slams the cabinet door shut—you cringe—she struts away—and you're not sure whether you should feel bad or not.


	2. Chapter 2

You're hyperventilating again, because Rachel wants to meet. She wants to meet Derrick, which is you, but she doesn't know that, which is the reason why you're hyperventilating.

Squeezing the bridge of your nose, you stare at her message and try your hardest not to pass out right here on the floor of your dorm room. You opted not to have a roommate this year, so there's no way anyone would be able to find you until you were good as dead.

**_Rachel Barbra [11:43pm]:_ ** _we should hang out in person someday._

You watch the minutes tick away on the digital clock on your screen. You bite the edges of your hair, and you breathe in through your nose, because all of this mouth breathing is starting to make you lightheaded.

You read Rachel's message over and over again, and you probably leave the reply box empty for a full twenty minutes before coming up with a valid excuse.

**_Derrick Emerson [12:07pm]:_ ** _that sounds great, except i'm still kinda in the middle of finals. maybe afterwards?_

It saves you some time. You can breathe steadily for about two weeks until finals pass and Rachel asks again.

**_Rachel Barbra [3:12pm]:_ ** _there's this great vegan place in the city that i think you'd love. how about next weekend?_

**_Derrick Emerson [3:25pm]:_ ** _sry i only eat meat._

It's a lame excuse, but it's also the best excuse you can come up with under such nerve-wracking circumstances. You wait for about a half hour for a reply until it's pretty obvious that she's not going to answer you.

With a sigh, you shut your laptop and toss it onto your bed. Rachel's been pressuring you for a real date ever since the end of the first semester, yet there's probably over a million reasons why that meet and greet can never _ever_ happen.

She'd be expecting a tall, blonde haired man to sweep her off of her feet. She'd be expecting light brown stubble, large manly hands, and a rock hard chest.

But in reality, what she'd get is a poise woman with hazel eyes, neck long blonde hair, red pouty lips, and soft dainty hands.

You got Derrick's picture off of Google search, where you looked up 'hot blonde guys' and chose the first picture you thought would catch Rachel's eye.

It just so happens that 'Derrick Emerson' is a model from Russia who has numerous photos of himself and other models posing as friends for some magazines from foreign countries overseas.

When this first began, you didn't think it would affect Rachel as much as it appears. All you wanted was to talk to her without the worry of word vomit. But now you're starting to feel guilty about how this is changing Rachel.

At work, she's not her usual bubbly self anymore. You hear conversations between her and Kurt all of the time; Kurt telling her that she needs to move on; Rachel swearing that Derrick's a good guy and has just been busy lately.

Derrick actually hasn't been busy. He goes to class, to work, hangs out with some friends from school, and even invites Santana out sometimes when no one else is available to meet up for a drink.

But no, he hasn't been busy at all.

\--

Rachel's in a mood the next day. You can tell as soon as she walks through the double glass doors.

Usually when she comes into work, she's humming the song she was listening to on the radio, or she's smiling because every day is a day to smile, or she's grasping Kurt's arm in hers, giggling at one of her own jokes.

But this morning Rachel is absolutely mute, and it seems you're not the only one who notices.

"What's with the stick shoved up Rachel's ass?" Santana laughs, seemingly delighted, because if it's one thing she loves more than anything, it's seeing happy people in a damper mood. "Cat piss in her bowl of cereal this morning or something?"

You know she's only joking around to make you laugh because you've kind of been in a sour mood too lately, but since you know the real reason Rachel's so blah today is because of Derrick, you don't laugh. It always seems to be about Derrick nowadays, which totally sucks, considering Derrick doesn't even fucking exist.

Narrowing your eyes, you scan the entire bookshop for Rachel until you find her standing on a ladder as she files a stack of books on the top shelf.

This is your opportunity. This is the moment in which you've been waiting for. If you approach her and ask her what's wrong, there is no way she can escape.

As you walk off in Rachel's direction, you vaguely hear Santana scoff incredulously behind you, and that's when you remember you just completely ignored her.

(Oh, well. She'll get over it.)

"Hi, Rachel," you say, trying to smile, but it feels more as if you're trying not to die. It's the first time you've spoken to her as Quinn in almost a month, and it's completely mortifying how much your stomach is starting to hurt from just being this close to her.

After a brief pause, Rachel glances down at you with a huff. "Hey, Quinn," she says back, continuing to slide the books down the shelf. "Something you need?"

"Uh, no," you murmur. "I was just...you seem a little off today."

"I don't really want to talk about it," she says, thumbing her way through a used novel.

You can understand that, but it still doesn't keep you from feeling bad. Since you can't ease her feelings as Derrick, maybe being Quinn for awhile will actually work in your favor.

Tilting your head up, you try your hardest not to stare at Rachel's butt and say, "Well, maybe if you tell me what's wrong, I can help with whatever you're going through."

She scoffs, "Oh, I highly doubt that."

"I'm a very good listener," you insist, grabbing onto the ladder. "Some might even say the best. I give really good advice too."

"Will you back off, please?" Rachel exasperates, narrowing her piercing brown eyes down on you. Biting her lower lip, she quickly turns her head and sniffles. Her voice is muffled as she mutters, "Um, sorry, I just—I said I don't want talk about it. Frankly, whatever goes on in my personal life is none of your business, so would you please just leave me alone?"

She says it as kindly as she can, but her words still manage to rip your heart in half. You suppose you kind of deserve it, though, considering you indirectly broke her heart first.

You don't say another word. You honor Rachel's wishes and walk back over to the cash register where Santana is readily waiting for you.

"What a bitch," she says, resting a hand on your shoulder in a form of comfort.

You know she means well, but you're just as upset about what just happened, so you nudge her hand away and mutter, "Don't talk about her like that."

The way Santana sneers isn't surprising, but what she does next surely is; "Okay, baby," she purrs, aggressively pinching your ass as she passes behind you. "I can be a bitch too if that's what you like."

"Santana, stop," you whisper, rubbing your ass, because that brief squeeze actually kind of hurt a little bit.

"Stop _what_? Stop treating you the way Rachel does?" Santana smirks as she rounds the counter, raising an eyebrow expectantly as if she's actually waiting for a response. When you choose to ignore her once again, Santana leans forward, presses her lips to your ear, and whispers, "If that's what you want in a girl, I can give you that, baby. If you like being ignored and then told off like a dirty little whore, I can do that too."

You push her away as she laughs cynically at the blush heating up your face. "You're being a bitch on purpose, Santana. You are vulgar and inappropriate and crass," you list off, rolling your eyes at the wink she gives you. "But Rachel's upset for valid reasons. You don't know what she's going through."

"Oh, please," Santana scoffs, still grinning in amusement. "Don't try to sympathize with her. She likes dicks, you like vaginas. And hey, what do you know? I like vaginas too. We might as well help each other out then."

"I can't believe this nonsense," you mutter, but you're thinking more about what you've done to Rachel rather than whatever it is Santana's continually spewing.

You don't even notice you're starting to tear up until Santana wipes her thumb across your cheek. Her dark brown eyes are soft again as she peers up at you. "Hey, whoa, I didn't mean to upset you," she says, cringing at your tears. "I was just keepin' it real."

"Just keeping it real," you repeat flatly, huffing out a bland chuckle as you push her hand away from your face. "What you are, Santana, is a bitch."

Biting her bottom lip, Santana lets out a weary sigh. "Sure, I'm a bitch to the people I dislike, but I don't dislike you, Quinn," she admits, wringing her fingers together on top of the counter. "I kinda like you a lot, actually, and I know I can be super cruel, but I'm willing to change for you. I'm willing to be a good person for you, Quinn. Now, how many people can say that?"

She makes a good point. Santana's a bitch, but she's good to you—when she's not trying to prove a point, at least. You'd be lucky to have someone like her, but no matter how hard you try to tell yourself that, all you can think of is the other brunette standing on a ladder in the back of the shop. 

\--

Two days later you get an unexpected text message; _hey, it's Rachel Berry. was wondering if you want to go out for coffee tomorrow?_

You didn't even know she had your real number, and it makes you wonder if she asked Santana for it.

You wonder if Santana was a bitch to her—told her all about how you're in love with her, or told her off for being mean to you the other day. It makes your stomach upset just thinking about it.

After much consideration, you type out a response like this; _i'd love to go out for coffee :)_

Maybe a little too enthusiastic, but you kind of can't help it when it comes to Rachel, and her next message makes you smile; _excellent! meet me at the Stone Age Café at 9am._

Nine in the morning is right in the middle of one of your core classes, but you don't tell her that. You don't even have to think twice before sending her; _i'll be there._

\--

She's sitting in the back of the café when you arrive. Her back is to you, and you'd totally just stand here and stare at the back of her head all day if that didn't appear creepy to the people surrounding you.

Rachel smiles when you sit down across from her with a hot cup of coffee. "Hey," she says, peering up from her book.

"Hi," you say, unable to hold back your smile. "So, I'm here..."

"I can see that," she giggles, and then takes a sip of her tea, peering up at you as she does so.

There's a tense pause where you nurse your cup of coffee as well and wait to find out what you're doing here, exactly.

Placing her cup down, Rachel sighs, and then says, "Quinn, I..."

She trails off for longer than five seconds, and you just can't help yourself. "Yes?" you prompt, lifting an eyebrow.

"I invited you here today because, well..." she begins to say, and then grimaces down at the table. "I'd like to apologize for my behavior the other day. It wasn't very professional of me to bring my personal issues into work and then take them out on you. I usually pride myself on my ability to compartmentalize, and I truly am sorry, Quinn."

All of the hopeful air whooshes out of your body as you sigh in disappointment. Your mind immediately flashes to Santana. You wonder if it was her who put Rachel up to this, and the thought has your cheeks burning in anger.

"It's fine, Rachel," you murmur, realizing that this isn't a date or a get together or anything close to what you were hoping it'd be. This is either Rachel clearing her conscience, or Rachel following Santana's demands in order not to get beaten to a pulp. "Really, you don't need to apologize."

"Oh, but I do," Rachel insists, resting her hand on top of yours. "We bookkeepers need to stick together. Besides, I happen to know Santana has a thing for you, and it certainly wouldn't be detrimental to my physical well-being to land on her bad side."

"So," you drawl, squinting your eyes as you try to process what exactly is going on here. "You're apologizing because you don't want Santana to mess up your face?"

"Precisely," she says, pauses, then backtracks. "Wait, no, I'm apologizing because I feel bad about the way I mistreated you the other day."

Your coffee is cold, and so are you all of a sudden. "Thanks for the coffee, Rachel," you say, even though you paid for your own. Pushing your chair back, you stand up from the table with a sigh. "And for the semi-apology, I guess."

You leave before she can say anything else that will fuck you over.

\--

**_Rachel Barbra [1:22am]:_ ** _Santana doesn't think you're real._

**_Derrick Emerson [1:24am]:_ ** _who is Santana?_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:27am]:_ ** _one of my friends._

**_Derrick Emerson [1:27am]:_ ** _Santana's your friend? since when?_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:31am]:_ ** _umm idk...since recently I guess._

**_Derrick Emerson [1:32am]:_ ** _why doesn't she think i'm real?_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:33am]:_ ** _she's been obsessed with this show called 'Catfish' since like forever and thinks it's happening to me._

**_Derrick Emerson [1:36am]:_ ** _that's ridiculous._

**_Rachel Barbra [1:42am]:_ ** _i thought so too._

**_Derrick Emerson [1:45am]:_ ** _thought? as in past tense?_

**_Rachel Barbra [1:52am]:_ ** _idk_

\--

Santana knows you better than you thought. She's not only a bitch, she's a smart bitch, an observant bitch, a psycho bitch, a ball-busting nightmare bitch, a bitch who pays really close attention to what's going on around her when it's really none of her business.

But that's never held Santana back before, so why should it now?

Not only is she bitter at the fact you like Rachel more than her; she's so angry about it that she seeks revenge in the most heinous way possible.

She's deliberate in her inquiries and strategic in her vigorous quest to befriend Rachel right before your eyes.

You don't even know how they built this friendship so fast without your knowledge; all you know is that they're close friends now. What took you two years, took Santana all of three days to accomplish.

You watch from the other side of the bookshop, absolutely furious, as Santana and Rachel laugh and chat and joke about who knows what. You wonder if they're talking about you, and then you wonder if that's a vein thought to wonder.

Not everything is about you, but you just can't help but feel as if every word out of Santana's mouth concerns you in some form or fashion, especially when she sometimes pauses in the middle of her conversations with Rachel to glance your way with this longing look in her deep brown eyes.

Whatever Santana's planning is neither going to be kind to you nor your efforts to get closer to Rachel—that you're sure of.

That gleam in her eyes whenever you catch them talking, the deliberate way she quirks an eyebrow in your direction whenever they go out to lunch or take their break together—the whole damn thing doesn't sit right with you.

You know Santana, and more than anything, she hates Rachel Berry, so you know that whatever she's plotting and conspiring is not at all going to work in your favor.

\--

**_Derrick Emerson [7:32pm]:_ ** _it's random compliments day. i think you're pretty._

**_Rachel Barbra [7:37pm]:_ ** _all you've ever seen of me are in pictures._

**_Derrick Emerson [7:37pm]:_ ** _i have good judgment skills._

**_Rachel Barbra [7:40pm]:_ ** _is that so?_

**_Derrick Emerson [7:41pm]:_ ** _it's more than so._

**_Rachel Barbra [7:43pm]:_ ** _we should definitely FaceTime. i want to hear your voice, see you speak._

**_Derrick Emerson [7:44pm]:_ ** _the webcam on my phone is broken. i'm working on getting it fixed._

**_Rachel Barbra [7:46pm]:_ ** _of course you are._

**_Derrick Emerson [7:46pm]:_ ** _um...what?_

**_Rachel Barbra [7:51pm]:_ ** _never mind, will it be fixed sometime soon?_

**_Derrick Emerson [7:52pm]:_ ** _totes_

\--

"You know Rachel's internet beau?" Santana inquires, nudging you in the side with her elbow to get your attention. "It turns out he's a fraud."

The room shrinks ten meters within only three seconds of that sentence. "What do you mean?" you ask, maintaining your cool as you glance at her sideways.

Santana lolls her head around, tongue between her teeth as she tries to hold back laughter. "Rachel doesn't know it yet," she starts, lowering her voice, "but I've been doing some investigating and there are a few things I found that are both extremely alarming as well as familiar."

Your right eyebrow twitches as you punch a stamp onto the binding of a book. "Is that so?"

"It's _more_ than so," Santana mocks, wiggling her eyebrows as she slides closer to you. Lowering her voice, she smiles wickedly and says, "I have some undeniably concrete evidence to support my claims."

You huff out a disgruntled laugh—can Santana really get any more ridiculous? You don't think it's possible. She can't know. There's no way she would know.

Santana's smart, sure, but she's not a freakin' mastermind. She's conniving and manipulative, and she'd do whatever it takes to get what she wants—which, ironically, has been you for the better part of a year—but you won't believe she knows that you're guilty until proven so.

"For instance," Santana smirks, lips curled upward into this knowing look you absolutely cannot stand, "according to Rachel, it's been confirmed that this Derrick fellow has an unnatural dedication to poetry, broke his wrist doing gymnastics as a tyke, had a weird crush on Meg Ryan, and his favorite coffee order is caramel soy latte with a whipped cream topping."

You hum, trying your best to play off disinterested, but the way Santana's staring at you is really causing sweat to gather behind your neck. "Interesting," you mutter, flipping your way through a used novel.

"You know, that's the same thing I said," Santana murmurs, nodding to herself. "Small world, isn't? Considering you have exactly the same tastes and interests as this Derrick guy. I just find it weird is all," she trails off, and then adds, "And really, what are the fucking odds of two people's favorite animal being a fucking wooly mammoth?" Santana pinches her lips together, hip cocked to the side menacingly. "I mean— _really_?"

Slamming your book shut, you roll your eyes and huff, "What's it to you anyway, Santana?"

"You're catfishing Rachel," she whispers, ducking her head conspiratorially, and something pops in your chest, but not in a nice kind of way.

No matter what you do, you can't stop your hands from jerking every time you try to pick up a pen on the counter. "You don't know what you're talking about," you say, forcing out a shaky laugh.

"That kind of weirdo bullshit can get you on television these days. Never mind that, but if Rachel ever found out?" Santana twists her face into a grimace, sympathetic for the situation you're stuck in. You kind of want to punch her lights out. "Fuck, not only would she be freaked the hell out—she would never forgive you."

The jig is up, you think. You've been discovered, found out, caught red-handed, nothing left to do but fess up to the crime. You're busted and there's no going back now.

Santana rounds the counter, sliding her hand over the book you're holding, and runs her pointer finger down your arm until she's holding your hand to keep it from shaking. The other hand just starts shaking in its place.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you take a breath and say, "Rachel's not gonna find out," because even though Santana knows, and sure, that's mortifying within itself, you'd absolutely die if Rachel ever learned you were Derrick.

"I suppose not," Santana considers, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "But it'd sure be a shame if she _did_ find out in some weird roundabout way, huh?"

"Blackmail?" you balk in total disbelief, running a hand down your face. "Really, Santana?"

"Whatever you wanna call it, baby," she snickers, shrugging a shoulder.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, but I _would_ ," Santana singsongs, quirking the side of her lips pensively. "Unless..."

You don't even bother giving in to ask _unless what?_ because you know she'll tell you what she wants sooner or later, and you're kind of tired of playing into her mind-games anyway.

What could she even want from you? A kiss? No, Santana's not that much of a sissy to have to ask for a kiss. She takes what she wants. Sex? No, Santana's not that much of a pervert. Money? No, Santana has enough cash from her doctor parents to last her two lifetimes.

You grumble, low in your throat, as Santana glances up at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression. You wait, tapping your foot on the floor, because you know Santana already knows what she wants from you.

She wouldn't have even come to you if she wasn't yet sure of what she was going to do with the information she's obtained over the last few weeks.

"Go out with me," she says, trying to sound confident, but you can hear the inquiry and slight quiver in her voice.

"Like," you say, crossing your arms petulantly. "Outside?"

"Don't be stupid. I meant out on a date," she proposes, with this odd little twinkle in her eye, and you're confused on whether to feel charmed or sick. "Just one date. Dinner at this awesome Italian restaurant down the street. If you get through the whole date with me, I won't tell Rachel about you being a creep."

"Tell me, why would you, Santana, want to go out on a date with a creep?"

She smirks, eyeing you up and down with this penetrating look that makes you feel a little bit naked. "Creeps are kind of my type."

The idea of a date doesn't really sound all that horrible—considering how a Santana Lopez date could turn out, that is. "So, you want me to suffer through a dinner date with you? That's it?"

"I wouldn't exactly say suffer," she laughs, rolling her eyes. "Believe me, after a date with yours truly, you won't even remember what you saw in the dwarf."

You stare at her, unblinkingly. "This is insane," you laugh, absolutely void of humor though, because this is _actually_ insane. "Seriously?"

"As serious as serious can be," Santana says, grinning mischievously.

You want to slap the smile off her face, but you can't risk getting on her bad side now—not with the information she has on you right at her fingertips. Instead you roll your eyes away from her and scoff incredulously, because you don't want her to get the idea that you may actually like her.

"I'm not going home with you afterwards," you claim, pointing a finger at her as you narrow your eyes threateningly, but Santana just laughs, because this whole situation must be incredibly hilarious in her point of view. "I need you to understand that you won't be getting any at the end of this date, no matter how drunk you get me, got it?"

Smiling toothily, Santana shakes her head as she rounds the counter. "We'll see, Quinnie," she singsongs, eyeing you up and down. "We'll see..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just now realized Quinn is always fucking up in all of my stories :O

You go out on a date with Santana—something you never thought you'd actually seriously do in your entire life. You're dreading it all day, because she's _Santana_. She's inappropriate and pushy and probably a little bit insane, so you can only imagine what a night out with her will be like.

She picks you up at the entrance of your dorm building, and you have to admit that she cleans up nice for the girls she likes. She makes small talk on the drive to the restaurant, opens your door for you, and even asks you what kind of wine you'll have after flashing her fake to the waiter.

You'll admit it because it's true—maybe you're just a tad bit smitten with her, especially since she's being so nice for once in her life. She's smiling at you like you're the first person she's genuinely liked in a long time, and it's that look on her face whenever she grins that makes you feel unworthy of practically everything.

Sure, she's a bitch, but she's a bitch that's been taken for granted. For once you can see that twinkle in her eyes as she shyly nudges your foot under the table, but all of that quickly shatters into a million pieces when you see Kurt enter the restaurant with Rachel on his arm.

She looks annoyed as she sits down by the entrance to wait for an available table. Kurt tries his best to cheer Rachel up, but nothing's getting through to her. She's mopey and petulant, and it's really all of your fault—or Derrick's fault, actually.

"Still there, Q?" Santana's waving a hand in front of your face.

Clearing your throat, you shrug and say, "Mhmm," because you know Rachel's presence can do nothing but upset Santana at this point, and that's next to the last thing you need right now.

Her eyes narrow on you curiously as she places her fork down onto her plate. "What do you keep looking at?" she wonders suspiciously, turning her head, but you reach out for her hand just in time to keep her from scanning the entire restaurant for what you've been staring at for the better part of five minutes now.

Santana blushes as you intertwine your fingers together. "I was just thinking," you whisper, delectably pursing your lips as you gaze up at her.

"Thinking about what?" she asks, smirking as she lowers her voice to sound like a purring cat.

"You...and I," you say, playing with each and every one of her fingers, hoping to distract her long enough to keep her from spotting Rachel. "You know, doing _stuff_...to each other."

It's not one of your best lines, but it makes Santana exhale uneasily all the same. Licking her lips, she actually growls, low in her throat, and sets you with this predatory look in her dark eyes. You feel like a full course meal as she bites on her bottom lip and whispers, "I think I can make that hap—"

"Santana!" you hear, and oh no, no, _no_ , this cannot be happening right now. "Oh my gosh, are you guys out on a date?!"

Rachel looks considerably happier than she did five minutes ago as she drags Kurt across the restaurant to where you and Santana are sat.

"Santana, why didn't you tell me she said yes?" Rachel exclaims, pinning Santana with an accusatory stare, in which Santana rolls her eyes and clenches her jaw in annoyance. "You guys look so cute together. Don't they make the cutest couple, Kurt?"

"We're not a couple," you blurt, feeling your cheeks turn red. You tug your hand away from Santana's grip before Rachel can dispute your claim. "We're just, you know, eating dinner. Together. As friends."

Taken aback, Santana quirks an eyebrow. "Well, yeah, but—"

"And we're not together," you add, feeling an odd need to set Rachel straight. Out of the corner of your eye you see Santana lower her eyes to the table, but you continue talking nonetheless, hoping to quell Rachel's original beliefs. "This is just a dinner between two good friends. That's all."

"Oh," Rachel mumbles, confused. With a quizzical expression, her eyes bounce back and forth from you to Santana and back again. "Well, I'm sorry, I guess I just assumed that—"

Finally Kurt speaks up, hoping to squash the obvious tension that's just transpired out of thin air. "I think our table is ready," he says suddenly, repeatedly tugging on Rachel's elbow. "We should probably grab it before somebody else does. You know how crazy New Yorkers get over their lasagna."

"Yes, well, I hope you two have fun on your..." Rachel looks to Santana for help, but Santana's eyes are focused low as she flares her nostrils heatedly. "Um, I guess we'll just see you at work tomorrow. So sorry for the mix up."

"Rachel, c'mon," Kurt grunts, finally pulling Rachel away from your table.

Your back remains stiff as you watch them walk off towards the back of the restaurant. Once they're gone, you let out a sigh of relief, happy that's over, but once you turn around and catch the dismayed look on Santana's face, your stomach muscles tighten up all over again.

Santana doesn't say a word as she takes her napkin out of her lap and places it angrily on the table. She's absolutely steaming as she lifts her hand to summon the waiter for the check. You don't mention that you haven't even finished eating yet. That would probably only upset her further.

You keep your head down as she talks to the waiter and gets the bill straightened out. Once he's gone, you lift your eyes and whisper, "Santana, please, just..."

You don't know what to say. Your mouth feels dry all of a sudden as you search for a way to apologize for your insincerity without seeming phony.

Eventually you just end up saying, "I'm sorry." For now it's your safest bet.

Sighing, Santana glances up at you with something bright glistening in her eyes. "I don't want to hear it, Quinn," she grits out between clenched teeth, slumping back into her chair. "I become your friend, I tell you how I feel, I take you out on a date, and I sweep you off of your fucking feet. I did everything right, yet you _still_ don't give a rat's ass about me."

You don't mention the fact that she blackmailed you into this date. Instead, you swallow, but your pride gets stuck in your throat. "You know that's not true."

"Isn't it though? I don't know why it took me so long, but now it's finally clear to me what you want, and you know what?" Santana asks rhetorically, quirking an eyebrow as she grabs her purse from off the table. "If you don't have the courage to tell Rachel how you feel on your own, well, I'll just have to do it myself before you end up breaking somebody else's heart."

She stands abruptly, and your heart lurches out of your rib cage, slamming right up against your chest. "Wait, Santana, stop," you call after her as she heads toward the front of the restaurant. You take off after her in your heels and catch her arm before she can make an escape. "You can't do this. You promised you wouldn't tell her."

Seemingly careless, Santana shrugs as she rips her arm out of your grasp. "I guess we're all liars then," she mutters, giving you one last unsavory glance over her shoulder before exiting the restaurant.

\--

You don't actually believe Santana could betray you like that until you get a message at exactly 8 o'clock on the dot the next day. You suppose you kind of deserve it though. Everything that's about to happen, you did it to yourself.

The moment you even contemplated creating Derrick was the moment you did yourself in.

Honestly, who wants a liar? Who wants someone who's afraid to be themselves? Who has to create a fake persona in order to talk to the girl they like?

Your phone vibrates, alerting you to a new message from Facebook. You've never been so scared to load up a social network in your entire life.

You were hoping Santana was only saying all that stuff about telling Rachel as a threat because she was heartbroken. You didn't actually think she'd do it, yet you kind of don't blame her.

You tried plenty of times to apologize to her since last night, but all of your calls went ignored, all of your text messages probably deleted, all of your attempts futile.

\--

You've never been very good at being yourself. It took you years just to figure out who you were in the first place.

 **_Rachel Barbra [8:00pm]:_ ** _please tell me you're who you say you are._

With an abusive father calling you fat and ugly, and a drunken mother calling you a whore and a disappointment, it can get pretty difficult to compartmentalize what they say about you versus how you feel about yourself.

 **_Rachel Barbra [8:13pm]:_ ** _you're not real, are you? Santana was right all along._

For the longest time, you believed them. You'd look in the mirror and see nothing but a fat, lazy disgrace. You'd see someone everyone hated, including yourself. You didn't want to be that girl, so you changed and changed and changed until all you were left with was Quinn.

 **_Rachel Barbra [8:22]:_ ** _have you no conscience, no morals? do you have any idea how messed up this is? you can't just screw with people's feelings. what kind of person are you?_

What you were left with was a startling realization that you are gay, that you love to read and write, and that your quirks are what make you, you. Over the years, you've accepted that.

 **_Rachel Barbra [8:37pm]:_ ** _what made you do it?_

You've accepted the fact that you love women—you've accepted a lot of things you never even wanted to be. The only thing you have never gotten a full grasp on is your confidence.

 **_Rachel Barbra [8:52pm]:_ ** _you could have just told me how you felt._

It is still hard to look at yourself in the mirror. It is hard for you to stand up for what is right. It is hard for you to speak your mind on some occasions. It is hard to look someone you love in the eye and tell them how cool you think they are, how special you think they are, or how much you adore them.

 **_Rachel Barbra [9:11pm]:_ ** _Quinn? Derrick?!_

You're afraid, so you run and you hide and you run, until there's nothing left to go back to.

 **_Rachel Barbra: [9:26pm]:_ ** _so you're not going to answer me, huh?_

Your older sister once told you that you were special. You were only ten at the time, but she told you not to believe a word Mom and Father said. She told you to trust your heart, and to be yourself no matter what. These were the words she wished she could have heard at your age.

She left, after telling you that. She kissed you on the cheek, whispered, "You're special, Luce," and went off to college. Everyone who seems to think you're special ends up leaving sooner or later.

 **_Rachel Barbra [9:41]:_ ** _coward_

Hm, maybe that's why you're so afraid.

\--

At work the next day Kurt informs you that Rachel quit. She hates you so much she doesn't even want to see your face. She can't stand to be in the same room with you, or even share the same oxygen you breathe.

Kurt's just as angry—you can see it in his eyes. He doesn't mention the catfishing or how you've refused to answer any of her messages. He doesn't even make eye contact with you.

All you can feel is shame as he shakes his head in disgust before walking away, leaving you all alone behind the cash register. Your eyes burn as you duck your head. You don't cry though; not in public anyway.

Once you're back at your lonely dorm room, you let the tears fall. You curse yourself for being so stupid. You curse Santana for her loose lips. You curse Derrick for ever existing.

And you curse the world as you inactivate his Facebook page once you find the strength to climb out from under your covers.

\--

You learn a few days later that Santana quit too. You wonder if they're somewhere together, bitching about you—about how horrible of a person you are, how sick your thoughts must be to actually go through with pretending to be another person.

After another three weeks of cold glances and snarky remarks from Kurt, you quit your job at the bookstore.

The whole entire place just reminds you of Rachel and what you did to her anyway, so there's no real point in staying other than to hold onto something that has left a long, long time ago.

\--

Two and a half months pass, and for awhile you think you're actually doing a pretty good job of forgetting everything you did. For the first time in a long time you're actually moving on.

You haven't heard from Santana or Kurt, and you haven't heard from Rachel either, of course. They've all seemed to disappear, right before your eyes—or maybe it was you who did the vanishing act.

Either way, Derrick is gone, and you, Quinn, are trying your best to better yourself. You've signed up for a roommate for next semester so you don't have to be alone all of the time, and you're doing exceptionally well in all of your classes—even Calculus, which you've never really been very good at in the past.

For the most part, you keep your eyes to yourself, especially in environments like school and work. There is a _Do Not Enter_ sign on your heart when it comes to those kinds of people.

They are all off limits, and you don't even try to entertain the thought of asking the pretty redhead in your Intro to French Poetry class out for dinner.

What you do is you trick yourself, and you make yourself think the whole catfish fiasco is in the past, that you'll never have to deal with the Derrick thing again.

You're actually dumb enough to think it's all over—that's until you get a text message from an unknown number; _can you meet me?_

You don't even have to ask who it is. Staring down at the text, you clear your throat roughly and take a seat on a bench outside one of the buildings on campus. You bite your lip raw as you type out; _where?_

Your text message isn't answered until another two hours. You're at your new job—working as an on-campus store clerk—when your phone vibrates in your back pocket.

 _the bookstore. we need to talk_ , is all the message says, and she's right—you owe her an explanation for why you did what you did.

You blow out a bundle of air and rest your head back against the bench. Students and professors stride past you, seemingly enjoying this beautiful spring day.

You wish you could be as solemn as them. They seem to not have a care in the world, while all you can think about is the knot forming in the pit of your stomach.

\--

She told you to meet her at the front of the bookshop at seven o'clock. You arrive five minutes late because of traffic.

She's already standing to the side of the entrance when you pull up and park directly diagonal from her. Her eyes immediately pin you with an unreadable expression through the windshield as you put the car into park and turn off the ignition.

With a deep breath to control your nerves, you carefully step out of the car. She has her arms wrapped around her midsection. You recognize her posture as a defense mechanism. Because of this, you don't get too close to her as you approach. You keep your hands in your pockets, walk slowly and cautiously, and you tilt your chin upward.

Neither of you say anything. Rachel doesn't even look at you; her eyes trail around the parking lot at customers and pedestrians as they enter and exit the bookstore.

Before you even have a chance to clear your throat, Rachel goes, "Don't talk." She tightens her hold around her torso and breathes out as steadily as possible. "Let me say what I need to say," she breathes steadily again, "and then I'll tell you when you can speak."

You nod, quick and jerky, and form your palms into fists as they remain deep in the pockets of your jeans. You side-eye Rachel, and you clamp your mouth shut so that no words come out from between your lips.

"I was in love with him," she whispers, leaning heavily against the brick wall of the store with a humorless laugh. "Well, at least I _thought_ I was."

A knot forms in your throat at her words, and no matter how hard you try to look away, there's nothing that would be able to pull your eyes from the lone tear sliding down her cheek.

She wipes at it quickly, sniffles, and turns her head away from you further so all that you can see of her now is her profile. Her hair works as a curtain to shield the tears that continue to fall.

You want to reach out and comfort her, but you know that will do nothing but hurt her even more, make her hate you even more.

"I tried to move on. I really tried to forget about his betrayal," Rachel pauses, scoffing through a tired sigh. "Your betrayal. I tried to forget _your_ betrayal, but all I could think about for the last eight weeks was if anything you told me was real. If the person I felt so much for actually exists."

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out because you're not allowed to speak yet. You're beginning to wonder if you'll ever stop being a coward, if this fear to open up to someone you love will always be a battle.

Rachel peeks up at you from under her bangs. She looks contemplative, thoughtful. You're grateful that she no longer considers you with hatred or disgust.

Emotions are a funny thing. When you'd first approached her, you were full of anxiety and fear, but now those feelings are being overshadowed by something that feels a lot like hope.

As she hooks a strand of hair behind her ear, you can finally see her face again. She's stopped crying, and she doesn't really look all that hurt anymore, just determined. You swallow and stand stiffly beside her, making sure not to move too close to her or cross any boundaries.

Rachel sighs as she lifts a foot up against the wall and leans her head back. "Sure, I could ask why you did it, but I'm sure I can figure that out on my own. I could ask if you feel bad about it, but I'm sure you do, unless you're some kind of sociopath or something," she quips, pinning her brown eyes on you for the first time since you've arrived.

All of the air leaves your chest at the sight of her penetrating stare.

"I could dissect everything you've ever said to me as Quinn and compare it to everything you've ever said to me as Derrick, but all of that would just be a tremendous waste of time," she laughs again, bitterly. "All I want to know is who I fell in love with."

She turns so that her shoulder is against the brick wall, her entire body facing you now. You exhale uneasily and clench your hands open and closed. Rachel looks nowhere else but right into your eyes.

Months ago, you would have relished at the idea of her talking to you, finally standing so close to you, but now all you want to do is vomit all over your dirty converses.

"So, which is it, Quinn?" Rachel asks, tilting her head sideways to catch your downcast eyes. "Did I fall for a made-up, fictional character, or _you_?"

Lifting your eyes, you let out a long breath of air. She's asking you to speak now, and you're not going to be afraid this time around. You're not going to be a coward. You're not who your father or mother say you are. You're more than that.

"I've loved you since the moment I first laid eyes on you."

Even though that is probably the sappiest thing you've ever told anyone, it's the absolute truth, and you doubt Rachel was expecting that confession by the dumbfounded look on her face.

Your eyes sting as you hold back tears and say, "Derrick is a man, but I'm not. That...that's probably the only thing we don't have in common. Everything he ever told you, everything he ever said, they were _my_ truths...the truths I was always too afraid to show you myself, in person."

Pursing her lips, Rachel looks back down to the ground and nods to herself, seemingly deep in thought. "Why?"

"Why what?" you ask softly, scuffling your sneakers against the concrete.

"Why were you so afraid?" she clarifies, arching an eyebrow. She takes a step forward and reaches her hand out to you. Eyes wide, you stare at her hand as she extends her arm out to wipe your tears away.

You hadn't even noticed you started crying.

"I'm sorry," you say, instead of answering her question, because the truth is, you have no idea why you were so afraid. You're done blaming your fucked-up family on all of the damage you've caused. This is _your_ mess, and Daddy isn't going to fix it this time with a roll of dollar bills and a nose job.

"It's not right, but...it's okay, Quinn," Rachel says, rolling her eyes as she lets out a laugh. "I can't believe I just quoted a Whitney Houston song."

You breathe out a forced laugh, and your heart putters like a drum roll as you wipe away a stray tear. She's smiling and laughing, and you know you don't deserve any of it, and that thought only makes your stomach sink even further.

"Kurt's always said I forgive way too easily." Rachel shrugs and watches closely as you wipe away more tears. "But Santana tells me you meant well—that you never had any bad intentions in mind. I trust Santana, even though she only befriended me in the first place to get to you," she admits with a laugh, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

"You can't," you say.

Rachel squints in confusion. "What?"

"You can't just forgive me like that," you clarify, shaking your head. "What I did to you...you can't just forgive me like that."

Rachel looks amused as she folds her arms over her chest. "You've been beating yourself up for eight weeks now, haven't you?"

You've been beating yourself up for much longer than that, but you don't tell Rachel; it's not what she asked, so what you tell her is, "I'm ashamed and embarrassed and...and _mortified_ with everything that I did."

Your cheeks grow hot just thinking about the many conversations the two of you shared—the deep insecurities she told you about herself, and oh _God_ , the intimate details the both of you shared about... _other things_.

Rachel's cheeks look just as red as yours feel. "Yeah," she whispers down at her shoes, and a silence falls between the two of you as you dwell on those late night chats.

You swallow, hard, and you try to breathe again once your stomach clenches mighty uncomfortably. "I'm sorry," you find yourself saying once again, but all Rachel does is turn around, put her face into her hands, and lets out a harsh sob.

You watch, completely befuddled, as her shoulders heave up and down, and you feel terrible that you ever agreed to meet her, until you realize that Rachel's not even crying. She's actually laughing so hard she's shaking. "Sto—" she chokes through a gasp of hysterical laughter and wipes underneath her teary eyes. "Please, stop apologizing, Quinn."

So, you stop apologizing and grimace slightly. You don't particularly know what she's laughing at, but it makes you smile nonetheless. It's the first time you've smiled since you've seen Rachel's face again.

"Oh my God," she breathes out, holding onto her stomach. "I can't believe this." Slowly, her laughing fit dies down, and when she looks back up at you, there's a quizzical gleam in her eyes as she asks, "You want to be a writer, don't you?" You nod reluctantly. "Your favorite artists of all time is Queen, right? And—and you like being outside on windy days? Inside during thunderstorms?"

You nod again, and again, and again, and Rachel's smile grows the more and more you nod.

She looks contemplative as her eyes scan you curiously. "It's...it's gonna take some getting used to, but somehow you're the person I fell in love with without even realiz—" She stops speaking abruptly and looks at you with her head tilted sideways, and then says, "You're a woman," as if this is the first time she's noticed.

You fidget uncomfortably. "Um, yeah." And you're about to apologize for it, until you remember you're not allowed to do that anymore.

Eyeing you closely, she nods her head and smiles. "That's...something."

By _something_ , you hope she means something good, or maybe even something mediocre or satisfactory. "So..." you trail off, squinting your eyes questioningly. "What does all of this mean?"

Rachel doesn't even look like she knows at first. "It means," she pauses to eye you closely, carefully, and you try your best not to squirm under her critical eye. "It means that I think you're a good person despite the decisions you've made. You should have come to me once I found out, but even I can understand fear."

You want to scoff at the idea of Rachel ever being afraid of anything. She's always seemed so invincible to you. 

You nod your head and let out a shaky sigh. "What I did was horrible, and there are no excuses. I-I can't see how you can forgive me for this if I can't even forgive myself, but I'm trying to be braver," you tell her, wringing your fingers together. "I'm trying to stop hiding."

Rachel grins at your words, and she doesn't say _I_ _know_ or _okay_ or _that's good._ She looks at you like you actually mean something, and then says, "I'm gonna hug you now."

You don't see how you deserve any of this, and when you really think about it in the back of your head, you suppose you actually don't. You don't deserve her friendship, or even the hug she gives you as she throws her arms around your neck, pulls you close to her body, and rests her chin on your shoulder.

"The great wooly mammoth, huh?" she whispers into your hair. "You know those are extinct, right?"

The tips of your ears turn red. "Is that so?" you say breathlessly, holding her around her waist with a sigh of relief to finally have her in your arms.

Rachel smiles against your neck. "It's more than so."


End file.
